


Questionable

by TaraRhyme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Character Development, Drama & Romance, Eventual Relationships, Everything inbetween, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Gen, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Hope, In Time - Freeform, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Politics are fun, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, War is Complicated, Woes of marriage, but also that doesn't excuse it, gets weird, lack of character development, or something like that, people make mistakes alright, starts out smooth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraRhyme/pseuds/TaraRhyme
Summary: A government in turmoil is a people of unrest. There is nothing outstanding about that statement. Many of our parents were casualties of the battles, and we are children of the aftermath. But wounds haven't healed. Our childish decisions, children's paths- will move the currents of nations. Harry Potter just wanted a cigarette, and for a cigarette the world changed again.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Harry Potter & James Potter & Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	1. How Harry Potter is French

"Harry, get your trunk down, we're taking the portkey!" Dad's voice was loud and ever-present as, well, ever. It seemed like it was never quiet in the Potter home. Silence was an enemy that was battled and held at bay. Today, Harry, a small (averagely so!) boy of 14 years was heading off to Hogwarts.

This is an important thing to mention because Harry Potter had never been to Hogwarts and he was frankly really excited. He had heard countless (really) stories of the adventures in Hogwarts' worn halls, just in the last month. It was still shrouded in mystery for him, as much as his dad and mum and their friends talked of it.

His parents seemed to talk a lot about the past.

"Harry, haven't got all day, it's a portkey," Dad calls again.

"Alright then, a minute." Harry shoved his worn copy of Arithmancer Graphicals Vol. 4 into a satchel. A dry, but necessary tome for his school studies. Hoisting the trunk up would be futile without the Feather-Light Charm so cheers to mum for that. The Potter home was suspectible to the British Trace for Underage Witches and Wizards. Harry was feeling rather useless again, a feeling he had been getting accustomed to over the past few weeks. Gently making his way down the hall he stops at the top of the stairs.

"Thought I wouldn't see you off?" Sirius Black was grinning like nothing new, teeth sharp. His eyes belied his exhaustion, and when Harry looked closer, it was drawn into the lines of his shoulders and legs. Stoutly stubborn, he remains at the bottom of the stairs, hands by his sides, holding on to nothing but his pride.

"Sirius!" Harry smiled gleefully. "I thought department had you seaside?"

"Couldn't keep me from the big day." While his dad seemed to always fill the very air when he spoke, Sirius was a softer sort of occupation- his wild eyes darting back and forth looking for rebuttal to squash, but waiting. "This should have been ages ago."

Harry couldn't help but feel dejected, although-

"It's not your fault, kid. Just how things went for us." Sirius was a lot of things, one of them was not terrible at reading a room. Harry's drop in mood was very clear, even for his usual stoic look.

But, despite Sirius' words, Harry couldn't help but think that it didn't go that way for Sirius- or even most of the rest that participated in the skirmishes. (His teachers in his old school were boldly against calling the civil war of the Isles just that).

Even his parents stayed. He was the one that had to leave, when the war was still unpredicatable. Thing is, they seemed to have forgotten him over in France, or rather as the years went on bringing him back simply became less and less of a priority.

A few kids of Aurors or prominent Muggle champions did leave the country during the Cardiff riots of '84, simply because of the specific targets being children. Mum and Dad used to whisper about that, long ago in France, how the nobleties of war did not last long. Then children of the purebloods were safehoused when a revenge march took place in Mactosh, Ireland. I don't think my parents knew much about that, because I never heard them talk about that, nor the McKinley fire, or even the Greater London battles. And as for now, I couldn't imagine asking. I feel too far away from it all to be worthy of any answers. I felt angry about it, and guilty, of my life lived thus far. And yet, Harry knew next to nothing of his parents' political inclinations, although they seemed to have certainly supported something.

They visited often when he was younger, Harry was sure. He was placed in the care of a family friend at age 4, Pierre, for some years, and his parents were almost consistent fixtures then. Harry remembers hot chocolate, tinfoil, loud laughter, and lots more hushed voices.

After his ninth birthday, his father was in trouble of some sort (he had something of the such overheard Pierre speaking about with his Thursday "tea" buddies, who would meet each Thursday without fail and discuss everything at great length. And everything was always followed by a strong "For Fuck's Sake" from most of them). A long time later, as it felt, his mum came by Pierre's home. Many Thursday teas had passed by then, the longest time yet since Harry had seen his parents.

"Harry sometimes," Mummy sighed heavy in a way her tone carefully avoided. Harry liked his mum's voice, she always spoke English and it sounded very good on her. He wondered if she even spoke French, like Pierre and himself. "Adults do things that don't make sense. They- we- make mistakes too. Remember when you broke Auntie Marion's backdoor latch?" Harry had the good sense to look abashed at the memory, the shouts, and shamefully hung his head."When adults do things like that, it's not as quick to fix."

His mum put a single finger under his chin, and when Harry looked up she took both of her palms and pressed them to his cheeks. "Daddy, he can't visit you for a while. And Mummy can't either. And Harry, I'm so sorry-"

Now Mummy's face was screwed up, ugly and drawn, and Harry realized it looked as if she were about to cry. Sympathy tears of a young child welled up in his eyes, not needing more prompting than that.

"Harry, you have to say goodbye to Pierre now. And you have to be very brave. Oh, Harry, it could be very long, don't think about mummy and daddy because we will be thinking all the time of you." Harry closed his eyes in pain to the words, although not quite getting the severity. When he opened them again, it didn't look like mummy would cry anymore. He didn't recognise the look of her face right then at all, but it was fierce.

Pierre was standing in the doorway and Harry began to wonder if he was there the whole time, and felt rather uncomfortable with that. He felt closer to the man then, than in the four years he had lived with him. Maybe he and mum can work it out. He gave a little wave and his face was soft, but Harry could not do much more other than stare.

What kind of trouble is so big that daddy and mummy can't come see Harry anymore? And Pierre with his terribly dull bedtime stories that Harry still asked for as many nights as he could get- why did he have to leave Harry too? It felt really unfair.

His mum, with hands still pressed to his face, smushed the palms non-too-gently together and sucked a sharp breath in. She stood fluidly and walked past Pierre, who remained standing as one with the doorframe. He gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder that looked rather painful. She looked at him and he at her, and Harry couldn't see the look they shared but he now felt like the outsider.

"Mum!" Harry meant to shout but his voice was even quieter than usual, as if he had been speaking for too long. She didn't turn around, only stopped short of the front door at the end of the hall. Harry remembers that foyer, cramped, and that day it was a million miles long. But she opens the door and walks out anyway.

It was less than half an hour later that Pierre took a silent Harry to the muggle bit of Colmar. Harry wasn't sure if they lived near Colmar, but they seemed to visit a lot by floo, so it was at best the closest magical community. Harry had only been to the muggle town with his mother, he thought to himself. When dad couldn't make it they would go to the cinema in English and drink muggle fizzies.

Pierre also then grasped Harry's shoulder, once he motioned for them to stop. Harry looked at it, unaware of what that was supposed to translate. "Harry, you're a good, calm kid. These things will blow over if they don't work out. Keep your cards close to your chest and when you do speak do it with purpose." It was a surprisingly condensed speech from the wordy man.

Harry knew Pierre was a halfblood, he had told him as much, and that meant he spoke like a muggle sometimes. Harry may not have been versed in muggle sayings, but he grabbed onto the guiding words. He especially was not sure, however, what "these things" that would "blow over" were. It didn’t sound very good, but this seemed to be a day full of not good things. We’re sticking with a theme at least.

When it looked as if Pierre needed confirmation, Harry nodded with as much intensity as his nine-year-old solemn face could manage. "Thank you, Pierre."

"Work hard, study hard, become all that you can. You never know what’s ahead, and it's often what you can overlook that becomes important." Pierre crouched down, bounciing lightly on the balls of his feet. Harry noticed he had very shiny shoes. Harry remembered clearly, that while Pierre was quite old to a 9-year-old, in that moment he looked young.

His face was free of lines, with a dark brown bread growing in to cover a fresh scar on his protruding jaw. It looked as if it had a permenant clench to it. Harry looked directly into his eyes, which danced the line of gray and the same light shade of brown that the waters here in Colmar were. His mouth was pressed thin from habit, then tightened to a smile even little Harry felt the lie of.

"We'll see each other sooner than you think," but he didn't smile convincingly. "A distant cousin of mine will be... taking you in to her home. She's never been a reserved woman, but likes children and well-behaved ones. She'll appreciate you, and leave it be." Harry's French was fluent but he didn't really understand what Pierre thought of his cousin.

"The car will take you from here, to Trieste. My cousin lives close to the town. It's very beautiful. You will love the water." Harry hated swimming. Or at least now he did. He had never ridden in a car before, but had seen them, and had never before been to Trieste. He didn't even know where that was. Suddenly that sad feeling mum left him with was gone- and Harry was feeling cheated and a little cranky. 

An older man was approaching quickly up to the road behind Harry's back, and had Pierre straightening up, the pressed line of his mouth becoming more pronounced. Harry was disgruntled and feeling tired (in mind not body, for he was thrumming with nervous energy). He knew know was not the time to be ungrateful or childish. He learned early on to be good, and out of the way of important matters. A child has no place in most of things it seemed.

"Pierre, come sta Marjane?" Il Galles ê stata una mossa rischiosa." Harry was a bit startled by the foreign tongue, but he likened it quickly to French more than English.

"Devo provare di nuovo il Belgium. Abbiamo poco tempo per le formalità. Il Liverpool ha avuto un altro caso la scorsa settimana e il Wizengamot si blocca di nuovo." Harry was a little wide-eyed at Pierre's duality. However the language transition left him feeling more alone. "Harry this is Gio, and he lives at my cousin's."

For the first time, Harry turns to face the stranger. He's tall, taller than Pierre, and has white hair peppered with a deep grey that was likely once black. The frizz makes him look a bit mad, but Harry found it more likeable. His tan face stood out boldly from the pink faces of Colmar's muggles, a face framed by thick black and wiry eyebrows. "Hello, Harry. This is nice to meet you."

Harry smiled small in response, suddenly shy. The man spoke to him English, not French, and he thought of his mother. He had something like an American English accent like in the cinemas, and Harry thought of his mother once again. "Hello, sir." An intelligible sound came from the old man.

He escorted Harry to a light blue car that Harry likened to a ball. Pierre walked with and Harry was grateful for that. Inside, Harry watched, face not quite pressed up against the cloudy glass of the backseat, as Gio and Pierre exchanged rapid words, gestures, and a slim package to Pierre's hand.

And when Gio maneuvred the car out of the narrow cobble street, Harry looked back for the hunched outline of four years of his life. Hands in his pockets, Pierre's face was just too far to make out. Harry didn't wave-, he was too focused on being tired and confused- and he was not sure the Frenchman would even see. He really wanted his parents right then, as he sunk down into the seat.

It was the last time he saw Pierre alive. He died before ever making it to his conference in Belgium, a mere day later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first fic but feel free to roast me


	2. Back and Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets sad a lot, and no one can make that feeling go away.

Harry decided he did not like cars. The deceptively smooth black and gray roads of what slowly became Italy were in truth a bumpy hellride, accompanied by the constant hum and drum of the whining car.

Gio did not speak, other than to sing a verse or so at random in what now Harry determined to be Italian. Gio had pointed to the muggle sign designating Italia and simply said, "You will learn." Harry deciphered Trieste must be in Italy, and that Gio was a man of few words, unlike Pierre.

Harry thought of how abrupt his departure was. He wondered what kind of mistake his dad made that made his mum and dad go away.. He wondered why Harry himself even had to go away in the first place at all.

So it turned out, that day, Harry did not go to Trieste, and see the water. They came along an empty field, surrounded by empty fields, same as all the other empty fields they had passed for some time- with a car still curiously full of gas. Harry had been lulled into drowsiness by the hum and became accustomed to the jolts of his head against the windowpane. It was to a small degree painful, but by this point almost comforting. Stillness seemed incorrect, so he blearily propped himself up, waiting for Gio to start the car again with his metal bit thing. Harry at least thought it was metal, and certainly forgot what it was really called.

But Gio got out of the car and flourished his wand in his left hand, while a placating palms-up was made with his other. Harry saw the very sky shimmer, and Gio returned to the car.

As the car turned towards the field on their right, a rough gravel path appeared underneath with the car's every puttering roll. It was as if Gio knew perfectly where to drive, or maybe he just could see where Harry could not. Then the gravel rolled out faster to arrive at an imposing manor-face, with a large trellis in front and a bird fountain in disuse. It was silent as Harry got out wobbily, no birds or the like. It was beautiful, probably, a long time ago, Harry surmised.

"The lady of the manor is reading at this time, likely. The elves bring you and your things to your room." This was the most Gio had spoken to him, and it didn't seem like more was forthcoming. They both got out and Gio began to poke and prode at the vines on the trellis shading the car, muttering to himself. Harry made his way to the front doors. Made of wood and they looked sturdy, if a bit old.

They swung open without a touch, lacking gentleness and banging to the stone wall. A small, raggedy green-gray creature, barely coming to Harry's knee popped in front of him. Despite being of a pureblood family, Harry had never heard of having Potter elves. His mum and dad's house he could barely remember. Only just the blasted cat.

Therefore it was a novel experience, the large, bulbous eyes and rather grotesque body.

Harry recalls for the rest of his life that the lady of the manor and himself would not meet at all for the five years of his residence in-what was presumed to be- her home. He, on occasion, would see Gio wandering about, but out of a quickly developed understanding Harry rarely approached him.

At eleven years old he received a letter from the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. He was to pen back his acceptance to enrollment. Harry longed for the comforts of his memorable years in France. Beauxbatons was a French school, made up of the wizards and witches of Southern Europe and some of Northern Africa, but taught in French. A comforting language.

He fantasized of seeing Pierre again, and most of all his parents, like it once was.

His parents wrote him letters upon arrival, first weekly, then monthly, and as of the day Harry had got his Beauxbatons letter the last letter he parents sent was 3 months ago- to the date. Harry couldn't write his mum or dad because it was dangerously forbidden by them, and that went unexplained. Letters were fairly brief but carried platitudes of love, nothing to indicate troubles or what was going on with them in Britain. It wasn't as if Harry didn't read about it himself, however. He read quite a lot. He learned Italian quickly, for many reasons.

Firstly, he has free range of the manor which was really only useful in the old library and the runover gardens. Most of those books were Italian or German, and Harry wasn't much of a gardner.

Secondly, Gio was limited in English. Not that his English was bad, simply he refused to speak it. Also, he was not receptive to talking of magic, only mundane things, and if so, Harry had to speak Italian.

Thirdly, and most importantly, was that he needed to read the newspapers. He wanted to know what was going on in Britain. He needed to know if this affected his parents (as it affected him), if he would see their names in the papers. He never did.

He understood little of the informational pieces starting out, but worked hard to understand why life was like this and mum and dad were not with him. It became clear that there were traditionalists and reformists; and the political battle between the two had spread to undercover attacks that blew into a full scale civil war. Friends and family fighting one another for loosely formed ideals. There was Voldemort, the name to which traditionalists flocked and there was no name for the leader of the reformist movement. Although Albus Dumbledore, retired Professor, was implied heavily from what Harry understood, even by himself! A suspicious amount of interviews with the Daily Prophet for "a truly unimportant retiree" as Mr. Dumbledore put it.

At first, Harry struggled with life at the manor, and was put out. On his lonesome, he missed his parents and Pierre, and really anyone to love him and tell him things will blow over. But as all children, he would eventually adapt with ease of his age.

Harry read a lot. He liked made up stories most of all, fantastical bits of magic beyond the scope of a real wizard. His favorite series he translated over to French and English, as he loved it so much, Tall Tales of Merridyn of Merlin.

But for the first half year, such distractions were not enough from the feeling like being eaten alive, and he cried and cried until he was empty many nights, all for being left behind. And always the day after, feeling guilty for being a baby about a war he's not even fighting. Because that's what the papers began calling it as the death toll fly upwards. (Gio said only one thing to Harry when he saw him reading the news, "Sensational". It didn't seem in a positive tune.)

He began to go on walks every now and then all the way down to Trieste. It was beautiful, true, but Harry was a little resentful that he was stuck with muggle Trieste. As per most magical communities, magical Trieste required any magic user under age 13 to be accompanied in by an adult magical.

Harry wondered if Gio would mind him leaving, but he never seemed to notice, or rather did not mind what precisely it was that Harry did. That didn't bother Harry. He only wished that Gio would take him to the community, but one strong "No" had Harry defeated. He didn't like confrontation, and with Gio, wouldn't even know how to go about it.

He also read simply to learn. History books weren't bad, they were like stories that were true. But practical books like potions and spellwork were just memorizable information. Sometimes if he really focused he could make simple spells kind of work, just with his finger. But it felt and looked rather dumb, and Harry rather wanted a wand. Without a way to channel his learning he found it moot. Herbology was cool, but he couldn't actually grow anything without going to the community.

When Harry got his letter, he right away penned a reply, But he hesitated to send it- he had to talk with Gio about one small hitch.

"Gio? Adesso ho 11 anni e la mia lettera di scuola è arrivata, ma non ho una bacchetta, o niente del genere. il fabbricante di bachette più vicino è a Roma... come andrò a scuola senza un bacchetta?" The old man shrugs the question off, not moving from his crouch. Harry always found him in the gardens early morning. After two years they look as rundown as ever, and Harry could never manage to figure out what he was always doing there.

"I tuoi genitori vengono. Ollivander." Harry felt like he was floating, he must've been hearing things. The letter's addled his brains.

"I miei genitori? Mi vedrai?"

"Madre. Padre. Mercoledi." Gio shuffled his crouch closer to the wall, looking none too interested in the conversation, pre-occupied with the weeds infesting the cracks of the manor again.

Harry couldn't believe it. It had been almost two years since seeing his parents in the flesh.. And now, his mum and dad were coming back for him. They were going to take him to get a proper wand, and then maybe Harry will wow them with how he'd spent his time, learning of the world things they reserved for hushed voices. They could talk for real, because now he understood! What if he forgets all his English before seeing them? He had to practice speaking it out loud again. Maybe Harry would also find out if the Potters really have house elves, or maybe he won't even write back to Beauxbatons.. Maybe he'll go to Hogwarts, like his parents did.

Wednesday. That's what Gio said. Harry only had to wait until Wednesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> r o a s t a w a y


	3. Hasty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday arrives

It was five to noon, and Harry didn’t want to say he felt nervous but it was the Wednesday following his birthday.

Maybe Gio meant the following Wednesday? Or really any other Wednesday, like the Wednesday before school. Did that mean Harry should send a response with the great old owl of the manor? Or wait?

“Harry?” As if Concentrate Dilution was in his morning hash, Harry felt his mind move slowly through his own name, spoken in a beautiful English accent, high and light. A woman’s.

A thousand questions burned: why now? Why couldn’t I write back? Why didn’t you write more?

“Harry, love.” That was all it took for him to turn about and break out towards his mum, who was really here. He hugged her, quick and gentle and reluctantly pulled back, in case she would disappear if he held too tight.

He couldn’t even look her in the eye, he felt as though he would cry if he did. And Harry wasn’t so young anymore. He didn’t cry like he used to.

“Superstar,” and the tears came unbidden. His dad was there too, gripping mum’s shoulder tight and he looked teary himself. Dad pinched the bridge of his nose and Harry held back his sniffles before his DAD (his dad) was swooping him up with one arm and holding him tight. Harry felt the press of warm hands to his back as he burrowed his head in his dad’s shoulder. This moment was worth more than any words the Potters had to share.

Above Harry’s crooked neck, James and Lily Potter watched each other cry.

“...and Boja left this home to Gio a few years before you were born, after her husband Filippo, the original owner, passed. She took up residence in rural China I believe, without writing a missive to Pierre. We’ve been so— nervous after that discovery. Now Gio was always a good soul on Pierre’s authority, and he wouldn’t have recommended you stay in a home with anyone unsuitable.”

“Morgana rest...” Dad abruptedly swung his head to mummy. Mum looked at him and stopped talking entirely. She hadn’t stopped since they drove into town. Gio let mum use the car that Harry virtually hadn’t seen since his arrival.

Harry ignored the adult subtext, and continued to swirl his melted ice cream about. He was a little disappointed that it was muggle ice cream. Not even his parents would take him to magical Trieste. Being disappointed made Harry feel terrible and ungrateful, and he was doing his best not to show it. He was to focus on the great reality that his parents were here.

He had so many questions, but his mum and dad had more answers. Problem was, they weren’t to any of the burning questions bouncing around in the Harry’s sticky ice cream mouth. He’d never heard of Boja until today, but to his parents she seemed fascinating.

More interesting than me, or what I think of Gio, or anything at all, Harry thought sullenly. The shame immediately hit him, while his parents continued to stare one another down. Unaware of his mental struggle. Harry didn’t know why he was feeling a little contrary, and wouldn’t for a while to come.

He was a child of war, and for a while more he wouldn’t know what that meant.

“Gio told me,” he began hesitantly, in English, which his parents had yet to correct, “that my parents were coming to take me school shopping.” Hedging towards the real questions. Will I go to Beauxbatons? Why did you come for school shopping? When can I come home with you? When can I have my parents back? When can I see Pierre?

“It’s a defining moment in a young man’s life and tomorrow we’ll go to the alley. Today-“ Dad reached over to ruffle his hair and Harry jerked back. “..today,” he repeated, “we’ll be staying in Trieste.” His dad remained leaning forward, hand outreached and rather roughly and uncoordinated he shook Harry’s thick hair about.

Satisfied he leaned back.

“And after that?”

“Do you like the home, Harry? It has some amount of countryside charm, doesn’t it,” his mum asked from beside him.

“Well yeah, I suppose so.”

“Harry,” his mum poignantly paused, “you were so young. Especially in the beginning, but even now-“

“Lils, he’s not going to live in that musty house forever. Beauxbatons may be in France, but their complacency makes for a shifting playing field. And with Delacour at the helm...”

“I don’t know what to say, James.” Harry was surprised by his mother’s frustrated tone. She was always so even, around him extra. He never heard his mum mad before either. He felt like he’d done something wrong and the inability to fix it made his heart flutter. But what had made his heart sink was his dad.

Beauxbatons.

He was going back go France. Not all that bad, considering that England was a faint memory by now. But where.. where were his parents? Were they going to France too? Did they even live in England anymore? What did he even know about them? About anything? Harry felt upset, and upset even more that he was upset, and not a good kid. Pierre always told him he was a great kid but after only two years Harry could only vaguely remember his face. Like through a foggy mirror after a shower.

A great kid would be so happy right now. The moment he sees his parents again, the three of them together, since years. But so many other emotions seemed to be cooking and Harry felt like a crying a bit more. And he hadn’t really thought of Pierre much since the first month in Trieste, but now he missed the big man. He was greedy for a soft “great kid, hasn’t anyone said how great this kid is?”.

“Harry?” His mum had an arm wrapped around his shoulder and he felt anchored again. The emotional tide was held at bay so to speak. He hadn’t been paying attention anymore. Another bad kid thing.

“After tomorrow? When we go, to get my school things. Where are we going then?” Harry asked again.

“Harry, it’s nice here isn’t it. Mild weather, safe, quiet. Away from-“

“Everything.” Harry said quietly. “You.” Mum seemed to shrink into the plastic booth, and Harry felt that guilty pang once more.

“We want nothing more, nothing in this world, than to have Britain safe again. Safe for you and us, and all the magical community. But things have changed so much, things are still changing...” Mum trailed off watching Harry’s face. He wasn’t so good at hiding his heart, he realized, as he watched her face fall expressively.

“The second we know it’s no longer a risk, Harry we’ll take you home. Together-“ Harry cut his dad off.

“Then why can’t I stay with Pierre? I’ll be in France again, and then can’t you come more often and write more and I can write back!” His face was open and earnest.

“Harry, Pierre can’t take you in love, I wish it was that simple. Not many of our— friends, could do what Pierre could, or would want to. Those would could’ve, spread too far for us to consider sending you, if we ever want to see you again at all.”

Unfairly, now Harry was disappointed by Pierre. By the elusive magical Trieste, by this ice cream, by his parents. Oddly enough, exactly in that order.

Harry didn’t have many expectations of his parents beforehand, or so he thought. But now he felt something crumble inside, and all the slim hopes were fading.

In a booth of three, he felt like an outsider. And stupidly sad.

* * *

It wasn’t brilliance that was spearheading this campaign, but dullards are the general populace, so one could say “effective advertising”.

Lord Voldemort appraises himself in his mirror, one not particularly what one would think of for a prestigious Lord but effective for its... purposes. Impassively his visage stares back, and that swell of viciousness was coming to a crest inside his cavernous chest. He was of brilliance, and as one containing such he feels right to bask in himself— this elevated being crafted from the shell of a schoolboy.

On his way to the door, he steps (deliberately or non deliberately- it’s hard to say) onto the prone and gutted girl on the floor. The cold of her innards were worth the mild unpleasantness for Lord Voldemort. For he nearly enjoys himself at the reminder of a night well spent, and lets the smear of the wet blood marr his footsteps.

He needed that bath truly now it seemed. At least he wouldn’t need to disrobe! and to that thought Lord Voldemort let out a sharp trill of derision. He was alone now anyhow, and finding himself amusing wasn’t a shock to himself.

In the bedroom, he stepped out of the mirror, and apparated on the spot. Lord Voldemort hears the intentionally audible crack, was pleased, and stepped into the bath.

* * *


	4. Champion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer and closer to Harry's return to Britain- and then everything really starts to blow up... Harry Potter and the Wizarding World of the British Isles has always spelled for disaster...

"I don't understand," Harry said slowly. "What Ollivander is to make him so special?" His dad went again to run his hands through his hair, and laughed.

"He's brilliant," he said. "Best wandmaker the world over, and it's Diagon Alley." He shared another loaded look with Mum. "This trip is worth it, Harry. You'll love it, better than magical Trieste could be." Harry nodded, although he wasn't sure he agreed with his father. The air was still tense, awkward, and Harry wanted to go back to the Manor and curl up under his comforter with Tall Tales of Merriydn of Merlin. He wanted his parents to hug him again, and he also wanted to cry. Or shout at them, though he never would do so. He certainly didn't know what he would even shout about. 

Harry didn't know it yet, but this day, this Wednesday, and the following Thursday, would change his worldview forever. His parents were no longer mythical figures, shrouded in affection and millions of miles away. The version of them he had in his mind slowly slipped away into the Trieste sea air, freeing Harry of weighty expectations. He would miss that version of his parents in times to come.

He would not see his parents in person for nearly three more years as Great Britain goes into a complete systemic upheaval, both Muggle and Magical. They would write again, now at least once or twice a month, and Harry once again could not write them in return. It was only a short few months before their next impromptu meeting that Harry was told it was alright to write them- neutrally and about personal topics only. 

Then one day his parents finally came back, and he went home for the first time. It did not feel like home at all, but he was going to try. 

Try to fix whatever wasn't right with his family.

But all that wouldn't happen for another three years. And three years of a young man's life, especially one as young as Harry, are absolutely vital.

* * *

"Potter," the boy bit out. A sharp whisper. "Potter, is it true? Is it true he signed for it?" Archambeau raised an eyebrow from the front desk, and Harry none too gently elbowed his seating partner when the teacher looked away again.

"Bellamy I barely saw anything, what with Delacour." A groan of understanding came from his friend. Fleur was a famously stunning upperclassmen- famous not only for her outstanding beauty, but her father's considerable political power. He was in the papers nearly every week. Harry privately thought Fleur must've got her looks from her mother, because her father looked like a blackhaired pudding. His jowl wobbled in every photo.

"Harry I reckon if he was qualifying-"

"Monsieur Boivin! Leave Monsieur Potter to his _notes_ ," hissed Archambeau. "And leave idle gossip for outside these walls. There will be time for idling once you find yourself expelled for some inane reason or another." The Professor gave him a particularly strong stinkeye, one hand clenched in a fist on his desk.

Harry risked it, and spoke lowly with his head ducked down nearly into the paper. "He really does hate you." Bellamy winced.

"Yeah really," he whispered back, the corner of his mouth barely twitching. But maybe it twitched a tad too much because-

"MONSIEUR BOIVIN!" Roared Archambeau. 

"No," Bellamy said horrified. "You've got to be kidding. How could you-" A few students giggled scatteringly across the room.

"GET OUT! OUT!" Harry pressed his lips into a thin smile, holding in a laugh. Boivin was grabbing his books and shoving them into his satchel as Archambeau began his descent down the aisle of desks with great dramatic flair.

"Not you too," he growled to his friend but Harry just shook his head cheerfully. The Professor was nearly to them, and Bellamy quickly shoved his chair in and practically fled the room. Archambeau came to a stop at Harry's desk, and watched the large door swing shut again. He gave Harry an appraising look.

"Do not let that foolish boy detract from your studies, young man. Having promise does not forego consistent hardwork! Working with such a troublemaker- Potter, you could be spending your time wiser," he said sternly.

"I understand, Professor." Harry said. "And nothing could detract from my studiousness, sir. I promise that."

"Mm. Good work with your latest revision, Monsieur Potter. As per usual." And the intimidating man stalked away again.

"I did not run! I was timely in leaving!"

"You definitely ran," Harry said, swallowing his chicken. "Don't entirely blame you, I wouldn't know what to do if Archambeau had it out for me since day one." Bellamy sighed. He was much braver in the din of the lunch dining rooms than in the silent study hall.

"I would not run," Élodie was quick to say. "You only play into his petty behavior. He'd like that, if he does not like you."

"Easy for you to say," Bellamy retorted. "You've never had Archambeau as a tutor! Lucky bastards, the lot of you have Professor Lemaitre!" He threw his hands up. "No one understands my suffering." Harry frowned.

"Hello, I've had Archambeau since first year. You've only had him since this last."

"Oh, well," the Frenchboy shrugged as if he had forgotten. "he fancies you, Harry. Hardly counts." Harry fought back a dark blush at the insinuation as Ghislaine choked in laughter, still clutching her water glass.

"He does not," Harry growled. "Anyway, would love him to hear you say _that_. Then let's see how fast you run." Bell's face dropped again, and he shot Harry a rude look. 

"Is anyone signing?" Élodie asked to the group at large. Ghislaine continued to clear her throat out, but most of everyone else was looking to Harrry, as he knew they would. Bell had been talking earlier about Abbas, a 5th year duellist that had qualified for Youth Southern- a duelling championship. When he lost and dropped out of the running, the boy was an inconsolable nightmare, moaning and weeping all about the palace. He was the unofficial Beauxbatons ghost. This year's sign ups were a matter of greater interest, as the Youth Southern Championship had been eradicated and if one wanted to compete they would need to qualify for the Southerns Under 25 Championship.

This was a considerably more difficult and more prestigious Championship, the winners proceed to Britain, Central, & Continental Championship, no age limit at all. Of course, more youth were excited by this slim chance and it had gained incredible attention. Fleur Delacour, the eldest Delacour, was a talented sixth year who had- shockingly- signed up only that morning. Abbas had followed suit shortly after but his short lived fame was already fading at the new news.

Delacour was going to compete. The daughter of the French minister who surely had perfect grades, but had never once been seen in a duel.

But while this is all very good and interesting, it all boils down to one thing for Harry and his gaggle of friends. Was Harry going to sign? Everyone was looking at him expectantly. He was top of their class, top of likely many classes that had come and gone, an accomplished flier, a better duellist- but only thirteen years old. He didn't want to be unrealistic. If he couldn't beat someone like Delacour, or Merlin forbid Abbas Ahmed, how could he hope to achieve anything but embarrassment? 

"It's certainly a real challenge," Harry said. "There are many widely reputed duellist in the Under Twenty-five group in this region alone." He took another cut of chicken breast dipped in cranberry sauce. Khadija was tapped her wand nervously on the table with little yellow sparks erupting off the end. She wasn't half bad in a duel either, Harry thought. And one day, she could be as beautiful as Fleur. 

"Harry, don't think so much," Bell said. "You think too much! Go for the qualifiers, you fail, so what? You would be on the youngest end of competitors. No one expects anything of you." Harry thought briefly of his parents. But he shook that off almost instantly. He thought instead of the supportive, vested faces around him. They wanted _him_ to do this. He was a role model, a model student, someone with a _real future_ the Professors would say. He was Harry Potter, and he was not afraid of failure of all things.

He went late, before curfew, when only a few curious and self doubtful students hung around the crisp sheet in the entrance hall. It was smoothed over a marble podium, and Harry stepped up quill in hand.

"Ambition is not the same as bravery, Monsieur Potter." Archambeau seemed to melt right out of the shadows. More than a few of the student stragglers yelped and ran towards their rooms. "If you know the difference, this may be an opportunity for you to experience the real world just a little earlier." Harry felt as he hadn't since first year- nervous around Archambeau. The man's large frame seemed to take the room over. Harry's pulse quickened just slightly as he signed his name -

Harry J Potter

\- as quickly and neatly as he could. Archambeau still simply stood where he was, unmoving like the statues in the palace gardens. Harry did not want to show fear to a man who had never called for it, not to mention Harry's pride, and so as he stepped down from the podium he remained normal.

"Good evening, Professor." Archambeau made an intelligible sound.

Harry blinked.

"Shame, Monsieur," he said. "that your family is not here. That you don't have anyone here." And maybe- from anyone else- that may have sounded sympathetic or perhaps just sad. But from Archambeau, that cold giant man, it was ominous. Suddenly that scar over his left eye seemed much more riveting now and Harry couldn't look away.

"Maybe they'll visit," he lied. "For a tournament."

"Confident," the man hissed.

Bell's careless words from earlier bounced around in his head as Professor Archambeau looked at every inch of him like- well like something, certainly.

_oh he fancies you, Harry_

Harry smiled politely, waited a moment, and then turned abruptly around and walked briskly across the marble hall. He heard his own footsteps and no others, and didn't dare speed up until he had turned the corner. Élodie was right- you don't run from a predator. 

He didn't feel alone even once he was in his rooms under the sheets. It was only a joke, he reminded himself. You just let Bellamy's silly words get into your head. Archambeau is disturbing but prides himself on that- it doesn't mean a thing at all.

_oh he fancies you, Harry_


	5. Veela Girl Scouts Out Child As Competition

"You've definitely been off, Harry," Bellamy pressed. But his split concentration made him lose half the scrambled eggs he was scooping up. "Damn," he swore. "Come back you slimy- but delicious- chicken babies!" Ghislaine scrunched up her nose, and Harry thought it made her look a bit like a troll.

"Sweet visual, Bell. Appreciate it."

"Live to please," he shot back. But Bellamy was rarely persuaded to, kindly, piss off, so he returned to staring imploringly at an admittedly somber Harry. He straightened and took a long breath before reaching for more toast.

"Haven't been off, just thinking. Should try it-" he cuffs Bellamy by the ear, "-sometime."

"Plenty of time for reflection in detention tonight," he answered darkly. "Archambeau going to dispose of me..."

"Oh brother."

"Here we go," said Medhi loudly. "He's on it again!"

"No!" Bell protested. "Listen, when you see my _name_ in the morning _obituaries_ \- Élodie back me up here-"

"Oh he's very pretty!" Élodie was gasping. Her, and now Ghislaine, were peering over a British newspaper that Harry had subscription to. Just in case anything came up. "Why, do they all look like that in Great Britain?"

"Er, not sure," Harry said offhandedly.

"Oh, look!" Élodie pressed. The Daily Prophet was shoved back up under Harry's nose and he spared a glance to see the shifting picture of a man with dark hair. He didn't recognise him.

"Nice hair," said Harry. "I suppose. Bell, he's not going to kill you. Not yet at least."

"Not yet?" Shrieked Bell. "Why wait?"

"If _I_ were a murderous teacher I'd wait to the end of the year- cleaner escape."

"Fair point," a nodding Medhi added. "Anyways if he'd want do you in, he's had a couple years-"

"He really is so handsome," Ghislaine murmured to Élodie, who was tracing the picture with her forefinger. She squinted. "What's an Order of Merlin?"

"Oh, I don't know. But World Champion... that's impressive."

From under the frame of the photo was the glittering print: Order of Merlin First Class, Duelling W. Champion '44 and NEWLY APPOINTED REPRESENTATIVE: CON. OF WIZARDS AND WITCHES, Tom Riddle

" _Nineteen forty-four_? He looks like he'd have to be younger than my parents!"

"Who cares, I love him!" Élodie exclaimed. Ruben looked up at that. "Oh not you, please." He flushed red.

"I want his skincare routine," Ghislaine sniggered. "Or maybe he was a very good duelling baby."

"A beautiful baby," Élodie said dreamily.

"But still, he'd be like fifty," she continued, aghast. "Does no one wonder how he looks so young? We age slower than muggles but come on-"

"He's got smouldering eyes, Lane. No one's going to question a _gift._ "

Medhi had been listening to the girls, while Bell vehemently gestured an approximation of how the Professor would skin him to Harry. "Good grief, Élodie, you've lost it. Trying to get over Clement-"

"I love Tom!" She declared. "Clement who, precisely?"

"You've never even gone out!" He exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

"Well, he's in Britain silly," she purred.

"And old," Lane added. "With suspiciously smooth skin. Very suspicious."

"No- Clement. Humiliating turndown? Ack, I'm glad you're done mooning so whatever."

"Then with the two strips from the left-"

"They'd get all tangled," said Harry with a furrowed brow.

"Maximum pain," Bell nodded solemnly.

"Right of course, go ahead," Harry waved him on. Medhi laughed a little too loud as always, Ghislaine scrunched her nose, and Élodie seemed too in love to hear straight. Their latest breakfast arrival was right to business as she plopped down. A grumpy Ruben shifted down a plate at her insistence.

"Please, earth to Élodie, let's prep for our Charms presentation. It's been moved up to eight forty." Khadija spoke for the first time that morning. The paper was finally put down to rest on the table, amidst platters of eggs and toast and fruits and sausage.

As the chatter went on, the crisp photograph did little more than blink and smile absently. With his face a pallid colour (and suspiciously free of lines), those dark eyes of his seemed to be black. His hair was crimped and wavy in a fashion long out of style- as obsolete as Tom Riddle should have been. At least a Tom Riddle that looked like this, still.

But he smiled from the sixth page like a memory preserved out of time. The girl, Élodie, had forgotten her new crush by the time the class bell rung. It wasn't her destiny. He was to be forgotten by all those at the table that day, for quite some time.

* * *

"Lily. We have to talk about this. Avoiding it isn't getting us anywhere." She clearly was intent on ignoring him no matter how petulant it was. Sometimes these little games were even fun. Pushing and prodding at each other, and living with the quirks and quips they really hated about each other. One of those things that Lily really hated was James' persistence. He'd always take the wheel, especially when it wasn't needed. It looked like now was one of those moments, and she knew that being ignored was one of the things her husband hated the most about her. It was 'childish, inefficient, and the anti-thesis to problem solving'. He had told her so many, many times. As those in any long term commitment would know, games like these are always pointless but unavoidable- so Lily would ignore him and James would keep pushing. Eventually someone gives, or doesn't. It'll explode later then.

James sighed loudly and studied her unimpressed face. It'd been the same look she'd give when they were children. His wife had a strong jaw, sharp and low, to match high set protruding cheekbones. She had enough weight on her so her face didn't appear sunken or gaunt, but instead full-cheeked and giving of a warm disposition.

It was misleading, James thought. Lily Evans is hard as a rock.

Although they had been married for quite some time now, and for them being so young it felt like eons, he couldn't, in the privacy of his mind, call her Lily Potter. Lily Evans was his woman. 

They felt quite wise and aged and naturally they constantly disagreed. It wasn't like that in the beginning, but it never really is. It was an adventure, to James, and security, to Lily.

Then came Harry- perfect, chubby little tike- and it couldn't have been worse timing if Sirius had planned it himself. War was nowhere as noble or as straightforward as they had imagined back in school. Things got... rough. Fast. When Lily found she was pregnant, they were terrified. All of them. 

"Lils," James wheedled. "Things are really changing. We can't keep hoping beyond hope that everything would work out perfect. We have to work with what we've got. Harry's got to work with what we've got."

"He's doing well at the French school," she snapped back, but already losing her steam. She was hot tempered but burned out fast. James' fire could always outlast her. "He's truly... the best of us, isn't he? Merlin, James we don't even have a house."

"Sirius wouldn't mind-"

"He never does. We've been here far too long."

"I agree," he nodded. "But I think, after the past two- nearly three- years of settling the dust, it's got to be time."

"Harry's going to come home to a home, James."

"Alright," he conceded. "Let's go house hunting. Though I have to say Sirius'll miss the company."

"It's time," she said. "I know that."

"Let's be parents, again."

"Full on," she smiled weakly.

Oh. _Oh_. Lily Evans was nervous.

"Full on," he smiled back. "For Harry."

* * *

He circled around, careful not the cross the line. He'd face disqualification otherwise, and he hated to admit it was more distracting than anticipated. 

"Now according to the first round rules, you need to stay behind the lines' borders until your opponent resorts to permanent damage intent. Then it's... hang on... free ground. But if the spell, curse, hex, jinx, or otherwise magical assault doesn't cross the circle it's allowed." 

"What's permanent damage intent?"

"It's what the caster intends with the magic, more so than anything else. So something non-lethal or non-permanent damage could be considered intent worthy, and therefore reason enough to cross the circle," Harry answered with a furrowed brow. "But what I don't get, is why cross the circle at all. We can move within the duellers' platform."

"Barely," Ruben interjected. "If you really have to move away from something-or someone- you can't even turn around. You can only move around the rim of the circle really. I mean, there's a step more space in the corners- but what difference is that gonna make? You're very enclosed."

"I'm glad you're doing this, Harry," Bell said earnestly. "At the very least, if you make qualifiers, we could see you finally get your ass kicked."

"Charming," Harry said. "No, really, brilliant vote of confidence from you. I hope Archambeau harvests you tonight."

"Ouch." He held a hand to his heart.

"Karma's a bitch," Harry shrugged. "Anyways, I've got about seven, maybe eight, loopholes. More like seven." They had a free afternoon today, after Charms presentations and a particularly dull Etiquette class. The gang was on the fourth floor of the palace, in a corridor with only three portraits, two of which contained roaring drunks from somewhere in the 16th century. The third was empty, as always. They often found themselves migrating to many different unused, sprawling rooms. They couldn't be called classrooms most of them. The palace had most of its classrooms on the third and second floors.

The fourth floor was much like the first, in that it was made of a maze of ornate, glittering rooms with ostentatious archways and gold inlays. The difference was that the fourth floor had no furniture- or anything necessarily for people to use. There was only the odd bit here and there that some student or other had likely brought up or conjured. Currently, Ghislaine sat in the only chair in the room. It was rickety and wooden, unpainted and old. One of the legs was shorter than all the others. It was as uncomfortable as it looked.

The circle had been drawn with a spell they'd learned in first year- simple drawing tool. They'd been spitballing about the tournament ever since Harry cracked in Etiquette about signing up. The sheer dryness of that class could be likened to a form of Veritaserum. He'd not, however, revisited his thoughts about Archambeau being ambiguously ominous. He'd also not shared that- it would mean talking about his parents. And anyone who knew Harry, knew he didn't talk about his parents.

Medhi had been the one to pull up the guidelines from the librarian. Harry'd already skimmed them, but none of them had anything better to do. The weather had took a nasty turn, and the wind howled against the large windows bringing icy rain. It fluctuated between wet snow and heavy rain. Either way it killed any thought of going outside.

Although all present company had been slowly lulled into the silence of their own minds, it wasn't long until someone found them. Someone who was looking for them.

"Hello?" Each head swivelled around to hear that light voice better. Even Khadija propped herself up from lying completely on the floor. "Harry Potter? I'm Fleur Delacour, from the seventh year."

"I think he knows," Medhi murmured to himself.

"Hi," Harry hedged. He hid his surprise. "Can I help you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foreshadowing lol: love a bit of that


End file.
